


I'll Never Know (feelings so low)

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo), venis_envy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied Relationships, Infidelity, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes what you know is easier than what you are coming to suspect. Modern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Merlin and its recognisable characters belong to the BBC and SHINE and I own near to nothing but sad times.  
>  **Authors Notes:** I apparently write for emo songs now. *shrugs* nothing new here. Huge wet sloppy kisses to Otta_ff, roamercorridors and my main beta bo beta mamacita for their eyes and notes and CAPSLOCKED STUFF xo

**I'll Never Know (feelings so low)**

He hears Arthur in the shower. He imagines the way the colour of Arthur's hair changes as the water cascades over his face and down his back. He can almost feel the way Arthur washes his body, always starting with his chest and then scrubbing downward in sweeping circular motions over sunkissed skin, muscles hard-earned at the gym every other morning.

But not this morning.

Merlin lies still, feigning sleep, on his back as the sound of water fades along with the squeak of the cold water tap that you have to turn hard for it to stay off. There's quiet for a moment, then the sound of Arthur's electric toothbrush going on far longer than the recommended two minutes (it beeps and beeps again before the buzz shuts off).

The light from the bathroom plays white across his eyelids as the door opens and closes quickly. There's a small curse as Arthur stumbles into something – probably his own football kit; Merlin is always at him to put it away properly yet it's a constant visitor on their bedroom floor. The sheets rustle, the bed dips, and then Merlin can _smelltouchfeel_ Arthur as he presses close. It seems like an unconscious move when Merlin wraps his body around Arthur's warm and slightly damp one. It is how they usually lie, the larger-than-life personality that is Arthur always needing comfort from Merlin in bed. Arthur settles back into their embrace, sighing before an audible yawn breaks it off, the soft click-clack of his jaw shifting with the effort. Merlin places his hand on top of Arthur's, pulls him close, and wills Arthur not to notice the tears that are softly moving down his cheek and running into the still-wet tendrils of Arthur's hair.

It hurts how much he still wants Arthur. Even with all he knows, all he suspects, he wants Arthur still.

. . .

The first time he sees bruises on Arthur's hips Merlin tells himself they must have gotten a little too wild after Morgana's party the night before. Arthur always wants it rough and Merlin can do that for him, but he prefers soft touches and pushing Arthur to the edge with patience, not a heavy hand. His aching head and tender stomach force him to think of other things and for a few hours, he falls back into sleep and forgets.

It's when he wakes up – isn't sure if he is awake, to be honest, because his alcohol-fuelled dreams have been known to be quite realistic before – he realises that there are three of them in Morgana's spare room, and where Gwaine's hand sits innocently over the curve of Arthur's hip, his fingers are an almost perfect fit.

Later, when Merlin wakes up fully to the temptation of Leon's perfect bacon sarnies and a pot of good French roast, he watches them interact. Notes the light press of a kiss on Arthur's cheek, the hand held almost too long on Arthur's shoulder, and the flutter of eyelashes that could mean anything as Gwaine then nods to Merlin before heading out the door.

Merlin thinks he sees something in the softness of Arthur's stare after the door closes. It's gone by the time Arthur wraps his body around Merlin's and presses warm lips against his neck, Arthur's nimble fingers swiping a piece of bacon that had fallen out onto the plate.

Merlin pushes what he thinks he sees down into the pit of his still-tender stomach and forgets.

Mostly.

. . .

Their sex life has always been great. Extraordinary even. When a few days go past and they've not managed more than a kiss, Merlin thinks nothing of it. They've both been busy at work – Arthur with tax season, and Merlin has had a bunch of new clients.

It's by the third week, when he finds himself rubbing one out in the shower before he even knows he's doing it that Merlin realises how long it's been. He tries to remember the last time they made love. He tries and tries and fails, and worry begins to set in. They're young, if you can still call men in their mid thirties young; they still manage to hit the club scene on the odd occasion (Merlin loves to dance and Arthur loves to watch). They keep their bodies in good shape. Well, Arthur does, having taken up at the gym over the past few months after Gwaine teased him about his ever expanding midsection. Not that Arthur has one. A few extra inches around his waist had never worried Merlin.

Christ, it's bad when he can't remember the last time he felt the burn of large, blunt fingers stretching his most private of places. Or the feel of warm breath over the crown of his prick, the hot heat of being inside the man he loves so tight it was all he could do not to come at the first thrust.

God, he misses it. Misses his Arthur all willing and pliant and begging for the most part with _wordslookstouch._ He misses the look Arthur gets when he's right _there_ and the blissed-out, hazy mess his eyes turn to afterwards. He misses the hot surge of Arthur's tongue against his own, the velvety feel of Arthur in his hand, and most of all the way Arthur trusts him. Trusts who they are.

Merlin tries to hide his disappointment later that night – much later than he had thought it would be – when Arthur shrugs him off with a "too tired" and then an "I've been up since four and craving the moment I could get back to bed to sleep," ending with the sharp bang of their bathroom door closing. Merlin stands naked and cold in the steam-filled room, his skin puckering from the shift in temperature, from the coldness in Arthur's words. The idea of sneaking in with Arthur for a spot of "water-saving" fun seemed like such a good idea a few hours earlier.

He accepts Arthur's body draped across his thirty minutes later when he finishes calming himself down enough to walk back into their room. He says nothing to the whispered apology against the round of his shoulder.

He says nothing because he's too busy thinking about the dull reddish mark of a love bite not completely formed on the rise between the back of Arthur's neck and shoulder that he spotted in the bathroom before. Not faded and not new, just _there_.

A shape too wide to have been made by Merlin's mouth.

He lies awake stifled in Arthur's embrace well after the man holding him has nodded off.

. . .

Merlin is drunk. He is more than drunk, verging on sloppy, but he doesn't care. It's the first night in weeks he doesn't have extra work to do or business functions to attend, and he wants to make the most of it. Tonight is special, more than just celebrating the announcement of Lance and Gwen's engagement. Tonight is about Arthur.

Arthur and his lies and deceit, and Merlin's inability to do anything about it.

Well, anything other than to get completely trollied.

They didn't even come together tonight. Arthur arrived late, well after the happy couple had already had "surprise" shouted and a slightly tipsy Merlin had congratulated them. Merlin had organised the party with Morgana, spending a good chunk of the last month at hers after work or on weekends. It had become second nature to brush off Morgana's "monopolising your Arthur time" and Leon's extra-long hugs that ended in "I'm always here for you, you know that."

Their concerned looks almost broke Merlin, every single time. It would have been nice to share his thoughts, the list of concerns that grows almost daily. A list he's added to sometimes hourly proving that _something_ is going on. But he can't.

Won't.

Admitting his own thoughts out loud seems like it would give life to them, no longer allowing them to be just an ache deep in his chest, but to take shape and form and become tangible evidence. As much as it hurts, as much as he wants to confront Arthur and lay their relationship out, as battered, bruised, and bleeding as Merlin thinks it has become, he can't do that. The thought that he might be wrong and lose Arthur anyway prevents him.

Merlin has held tight to this resolve, until this morning. He had woken with a start to the sound of soft curses, the tumbling of books loud on the wooden floor. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa watching one of the discs from the Red Dwarf boxset Arthur had bought for his birthday a few years back (he was most certainly _not_ waiting for Arthur to return home, and judging by the sound of the city bustle from the open kitchen window, dawn had come and gone). Merlin had feigned sleep. He'd felt Arthur leaning over him, the scent of whiskey and smoke and fucking _cologne_ that wasn't his reeking from above. Arthur had whispered Merlin's name, he'd said it a few times, and then shuffled off to the vicinity of their room – not long after a few odd bangs that were probably Arthur knocking into the walls on his way down the hall.

There was no real reason why it should have pushed Merlin to the brink. Why any of it should have made tonight, the way he feels now, any different from the countless other nights when circumstances were similar. But tonight it does feel different. It might be the abundance of happy couples surrounding him. It could be the fact that the happy couples have also been hinting hard all night about Arthur and Merlin and making them official – after all, they _have_ been together since meeting at uni, back when Merlin was in his third year and Arthur was showing off some particularly spectacular vomiting prowess during O Week.

Years. Years they've been together, living together, supposedly sharing everything, but for the past three months he hasn't felt like he knows Arthur at all.

So Merlin gets decidedly inebriated, into the realm of nearly making an arse of himself.

For one night he's going to pretend there's nothing wrong. For one night he's going to just enjoy himself, celebrate his friend's happiness, and dance his gorgeous arse off with as many people as will damn well dance with him. It's safe to do that here; he can flirt harmlessly with anyone because the people here at Lance's favourite pub are all friends and will think Merlin is just being _drunk Merlin,_ in which he gets handsy and cheeky and everyone forgives him for a pinched arse here or a sloppy snog there.

Everyone except Arthur.

Arthur, who has been eyeing him with a decidedly darkening stare ever since Merlin began grinding against Percival, Lancelot's football mate, half an hour ago. Or possibly earlier, when someone had put on an old tune by The Police and he and Freya had performed a hammed-up version of the tango. Or even earlier than that, when Merlin had been slow-dancing with Morgana before Leon swept her away. Arthur is definitely glaring at him now, his blue eyes blazing even at a distance as Merlin wraps his arms around Percival's neck, one leg pressed between the taller man's where Merlin is actively ignoring the effect their movements are obviously having on Percy.

Merlin glares right back, twisting his own neck to the side as Percival's lips find their way across his pale, sweat-covered skin. Let Arthur watch. Let Arthur feel a tenth of what Merlin feels every day when he thinks about why Arthur isn't home on time, or why his shirts smell like someone else, and why Merlin's heart breaks every time Arthur pulls away or drags him too close. It's not like Merlin isn't enjoying the attention. It twists at his gut every time Percy whispers something in his ear – the music too loud to make it out – and Merlin can't take his eyes from Arthur, anyway. Arthur's anger and look of _mineminemine_ is enough to hold his focus.

It sickens Merlin how much he wants that look from Arthur. Wants to feel like he is _wanted_ instead of an annoyance, a duty that Arthur carries out only because he has to, not because he wants to any more. It sets his very veins on fire when Arthur stalks across the room and somehow manhandles the rather large Percival away from Merlin's frame. It causes Merlin's cock to lengthen and fill with how tight it _hurts_ where Arthur has wrapped his fingers around Merlin's wrist and is dragging him from the dance floor and towards the back door. For a moment Merlin thinks they are headed for the bathroom – a dirty shag, that's all he is to Arthur now – but then Arthur veers and they're headed up and up and to the few rooms above that are for rent.

Arthur has Merlin pinned against the door seconds after they close it. A key magically appeared from somewhere in Arthur's pocket, obviously obtained earlier. Merlin's senses are in overdrive from the booze downstairs and how Arthur has always made him _feel._ It's Arthurs lips that skim over his skin, Arthur's fingertips that drag Merlin's shirt to the side so his teeth can nip and chase wet kisses across Merlin's collarbone and shoulder. It's Arthur's thigh between Merlin's legs and his hard cock almost bruising against Merlin's hip as Arthur grinds against him in short, sharp thrusts that say more than the silence between them can offer. Merlin can't keep his hands still; they run through Arthur's hair and over his neck and back – all hot flesh that he's mapped a thousand times with fingertips, teeth, and tongue, but tonight it feels different, it _hurts_ inside, but he can't help it. He wants Arthur, has wanted him from the first moment their eyes locked outside this very same pub so many years before.

He knows Arthur, knows by the fire in his stare and the twitch of that tendon in his neck that Arthur, too, has a war raging inside him. It probably isn't anything like the sick shame Merlin feels at how much he needs this from Arthur right now. The disgrace of wanting a man who has hurt him so much and in so many ways is in direct opposition to how _good_ Arthur can make him feel.

"Please, please," Arthur murmurs, his rosy, plump lips hovering for the first time above Merlin's. His eyes are so wide, so open and honest with this pleading, that all Merlin can do is answer yes and yes and "Take it, I'm yours. I'm yours." With that they are in rapid motion as fingertips yank down zips and pants become a puddle on the floor, shoes are toed off and shirts somewhat ripped in an effort to get naked and get to the bed for more. More touch, more feel, more of whatever this is that isn't quite love any more.

Merlin might not know how to deal with what he thinks is truth, the maybe in a plethora of situations that might have been, but he does know how they are in times like these. He wants as much of Arthur as is still his, that he still has some claim to, and for now it's all in their too-hard kisses and the press of fingers inside that pinch because spit just isn't enough. He lets Arthur take him, push him over onto his stomach and spread his legs without another word. Merlin whines as Arthur's tongue glides over every knob of his spine and down, down between his legs and to that secret place that Arthur at one time worshipped for hours until Merlin couldn't take a second more.

Two of Arthur's thick fingers soon follow, and Merlin is scrabbling at the duvet they haven't even taken the time to remove, attempting to find something to hold onto. There is a moment when the bed dips dangerously to one side as Arthur leans away from Merlin, a murmur of curses and then a triumphant roar when he finds what he was obviously looking for. Merlin shifts, his knees rising and one hand slipping over the scratchy material that is sticky with his precome. Fingertips near his prick but miss because as soon as there is a snap of latex, Arthur is yanking his arm back out and shifting Merlin's body around so his arse is up high, and Merlin can feel Arthur between his thighs once more. There's a few minutes of Arthur's warm breath and hands spreading Merlin's cheeks wide before his tongue is there, poking and prodding at Merlin's hole, forcing the tight muscle to give under his ministrations. Merlin's body was abuzz from the alcohol before, and now he's on edge, aflame with a need that has high-pitched keening noises erupting from his mouth as fast as groans and breathy begging sounds flicker in between. Before he's even got used to Arthur's tongue sliding around his rim and those fingers scissoring inside him, they're gone, only to be replaced by the wide, blunt head of Arthur's cock.

Arthur pushes in and in and _in_ , and all Merlin can do is close his eyes and _breathe_ because it's been long, so long since Arthur took him like this, since he let Arthur inside. But for the moment, right now it feels right to let Arthur take. He's taken so much from Merlin already, why not one thing more? Merlin squeezes his eyes tight as Arthur bottoms out and stills – thankfully giving Merlin that – before the feel of his large hand makes itself known, travelling where his tongue had before but in reverse, up the line of Merlin's spine, stopping only between his shoulder blades before his hips snap and they are in motion. Arthur is relentless. Every thrust is deep and hard, his bollocks slapping against Merlin's thighs as he rides Merlin faster and faster, pushing Merlin down with the hand on his back and pulling against him with the other firmly pressed into that dip between Merlin's hip and side.

Arthur is rough and hard and there are no words spoken between them, only wet, filthy sex sounds as Arthur takes and takes and Merlin lies there just feeling, not thinking at all. Because thinking would remind him of how this is what Arthur always wants him to do and Merlin has forced himself to do in the past because it's what Arthur likes. If Merlin thinks, he'll remember that time when Arthur had fingerprints in the exact same position as Merlin is sure to have some from Arthur's hand on his hip now. If he puts any thought into anything apart from getting off and how Arthur has now shifted him up a little so that every drag of his cock inside goes straight over that sweet spot and causes Merlin to see stars – if he stops and puts that aside, he'll remember that not-quite mark on the back of Arthur's neck like where Arthur is now sucking at Merlin's skin until all Merlin feels is raw.

He comes, comes without the need of a hand on his prick because it's all too much. The feel of Arthur in him, the memory of Arthur's eyes all possessive across the dance floor and the way Arthur begged him when they entered this room. Merlin feels Arthur's hips snap out of time, then become deep shuddering presses that are hardly movement at all as he huffs and eventually stills, his weight warm and almost crushing Merlin beneath him.

Which is exactly how Merlin feels anyhow. The rush of endorphins from his orgasm dissipates quickly, like one of those sparklers you give children at New Year's that fade almost as fast as you light them in the first place. Maybe that's what this is now, the dulling red afterglow as the metals burn out, flame flickered and sputtered. And gone.

Arthur eventually pulls out, his lips hovering over Merlin's neck for a moment, a breath – a word unspoken? – and then he's off the bed and Merlin can hear the toilet in the adjoining bathroom.

Merlin's never felt so alone.

He curls onto his side and forces the tears building under his closed eyes to retreat, because he will not cry over this. He won't let everything build up like the crest of a wave and shatter this fragile thing he's become in his world of ignoring the obvious, not now. But then he opens his eyes and he looks.

No bags on the floor.

He sits up gingerly, his body still bruised and raw and somewhat jellified by the sex he's just been part of.

No luggage, no _nothing_ , no sign that Arthur planned on them staying the night and fixing whatever Merlin thought was broken. The room is bare and he knows there's nowhere else to put these things. They're cheap rooms, made mostly for overnight purposes – or hourly, if that's how you need them.

Cheap. Quick. Fucks.

All the warmth that had filled his flesh is gone with that one thought. Had Arthur planned this? Planned for them to have a room somewhere with a bed so they could have that "I've missed you these past weeks" shag, or, or . . . had this not been meant for him at all?

Gwaine was downstairs.

Gwaine had been glued to Arthur for most of the night apart from that early dance. Merlin hadn't been able to refuse, because why would he do anything different from the norm if he wasn't choosing to believe that Arthur, his Arthur, would cheat? But now, lying in this bed and seeing nothing that says a night in a hotel room for that reconnection may not be the right connection at all. Cheap, quick, and nasty, that's how Merlin feels now.

He pulls his body in close, wanting to be small, needing to keep it all compartmentalized because it can't be, he won't let it be. Then Arthur is there at his back, Arthur is pulling him in and running his hands over Merlin's shoulder and along his arm, fingertips pressing in the spaces between and dragging their joined hands together up Merlin's chest, settling over the broken pieces of his heart. Arthur's lips press soft and sweet over Merlin's skin, warm and reassuring over his shoulder and neck, stopping in that space under his ear and near his jaw.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispers, and Merlin feels his body tense even further. A million thoughts of what those words might allude to flash across his mind in a thousand different settings and meanings. "I love you, you know," Arthur says with a tremble to his tone. Merlin can only squeeze their hands tighter, for as much as he guesses, as much as the idea alone has broken him time and time again, he still wants Arthur. Still wants him through the hurt.

"And I you," he answers.

It's the only way he knows.

**-fin-**


	2. How a Heart Stays Whole Through a War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I've had so many MANY people ask for the end to this over the years and at one point my beloved Niki was going to write this but time moves on and so does the ability to make things work lol so for [milksu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/milksu/works) Who just asked so nicely in a comment tonight x
> 
> This is virtually a bit of FIC, some notes and plot.

It’s three months later when Merlin leaves without a word.

He wakes up one morning – alone as per usual – and just starts picking up his things. Opens a bag, folds his shirts, rolls his socks and doesn’t stop until his part of their wardrobe is clear. He packs up the few knick-knacks, DVDs, books and records that he wants to keep into the boxes they still had shoved under the bed in the spare room from when they first moved in together. He rings Leon – who is working from home this week and pops around without a question as to why. Merlin makes himself a cuppa, sits down on the sofa that has been used more often as his bed of late when he’s avoiding Arthur, and waits.

Leon’s eyebrow rises at the scant pile of boxes and luggage that sit just inside the front door when he arrives, aviators pushed up into his wild brown curls. Leon says nothing and Merlin can’t find the words. It doesn’t take them long to take it downstairs and pack it into one of Leon’s vans for his landscaping company that luckily was going in for a service today. It’s big enough to fit everything Merlin has, but he doesn’t have that much and when stacked inside he feels it in his chest just how little his entire life with looks when he takes Arthur out of the equation. Small. Inconsequential. Six medium sized boxes, four cases and three crates full of the records his father left him that he’s added to – well, Arthur had added to for him back when their love had been young and new.

Untainted by hearts gone astray.

They get in and after seatbelts are clicked and Leon pumps the engine a few times to get it started, he finally utters the first words of the day.

“Where to?”

Merlin doesn’t know. He never figured that far in advance, just woke up and thought it would be easier to pack his clothes instead of put them away. Looked around and wondered if he could put everything he owned in the boxes they had and found that he could.

“I don’t know. Just not here. I can’t be here anymore.”

Leon nods and slides the van out of the parking space and into the street. Merlin doesn’t look back once. He doesn’t even want to.

. . .

 

Merlin decides to take some time off work. He’s got sick time saved up and, of course, all the vacation days he’s been collecting over the years for a long holiday in Spain one winter that he and Arthur had talked and talked about doing but never actually had. That was then though, and now he doesn’t have to wait for their schedules to match so they can finally get away. Now he’s free to go wherever, do whatever and attempt to wipe all thoughts of Arthur and what he will think when he gets home to an empty house, or what he will say when he finds out Merlin has changed his number or if he’s even noticed that Merlin is gone at all – far from his head.

He stays at Leon and Morgana’s the first night. Morgana, for once doesn’t push or needle for answers – which is surprising considering how much she likes to have her nose in everyone’s business. Then again, this could have something to do with Leon and the small shake of his head and clearing of his throat when Morgana starts off with a “Sooo,” when they are finishing the Thai Morgana had brought home for dinner. If there’s anyone Morgana will listen to and heed words from without question, it’s Leon. Their relationship is something at one time that Merlin believed he and Arthur were actually equal to in terms of its strength, honesty and obvious love. 

He notes as the night wears on, how they aren’t their usual touchy feely selves, they are cuddled on the sofa, but there’s none of the usual extra nonverbal ticks that Merlin has known from each of them over the years. In a way, he’s grateful of that fact but it brings to mind again what he had and what he’s lost.

After they’ve both begged off to bed early, Merlin hooks up his laptop and starts scanning for places of interest. He needs space. He needs time away from all the things that make his heart sore and his eyes fill with tears because as much as he is the one to have physically left, it is Arthur who disappeared first. There is too much here that reminds Merlin of what he had and right at this moment, at two in the morning in the dark and almost silence apart from the whirr of the fridge in the kitchen and the ancient dying motor of his computer – he knows that it won’t get easier unless he can completely shut _everything_ out.

An hour later and his meagre savings have warranted him a ticket on the Eurostar to France and then another train to the countryside and a small village where his Uncle has retired years before. He sends off a quick email to his assistant and boss of his whereabouts – knowing already from the many chats or one-sided conversations with Nimueh that his getting away for a bit will be fine. There isn’t a lot going on that can’t be handled by others in his department and really, he hasn’t even taken much as five days off sick in the past two years – and even then it was begrudgingly at that. If Merlin could have figured out a way to get out of hospital quicker after having his appendix out, he would have.

He waits until Morgana has headed off in the morning and tells Leon about his plans. Merlin garners a promise that he knows will stay faithful from the man about where he is going and a few hours later with a new sim card and a gin and tonic in his hand, Merlin finally feels like he can _breathe_ as the scenery goes rushing by him in the window to his side.

. . .

 

Merlin sleeps in his uncle’s guest room, curled along the left side of the double bed. It had always been _his_ side, and, as they say, old habits die hard. Despite the warmth of the early summer air, there’s a chill deep in his bones each night when he lies down to sleep. He knows it’s the absence of the warm body beside him that he’s grown to depend on throughout the years, and he can’t help but wonder if Arthur feels it, too. If he’s also cold and alone, hurting, or if he’s relying on other things to occupy his mind and time. The thought makes his stomach roil, and before he can stop himself, he’s rolling over to face the empty spot beside him, tears streaming down his face and soaking the pillow beneath him.

They talk of mundane things, for the most part: weather, work, Hunith, and even the boy who lives down the road and delivers news paper. It’s on the fifth day into Merlin’s impromptu holiday that he finally broaches the insidious topic that’s been festering in the undercurrent of each ordinary conversation. It’s simple, surprising, really, the way he goes about it, and Merlin is grateful for the comfortable ease with which his uncle moves into the topic with him.

\- Sitting in coffee shops and seeing Arthur who wasn’t really there but would also never really be not there.

\- Merlin should do a lot of thinking here. A lot of remembering and reminiscing and discovering of himself, maybe. Perhaps remember the first date since it’s briefly mentioned later on…

\- He isn’t going to get over Arthur in such a short period of time, so there needs to be more of an emotional connection between Merlin and the readers: shit they can relate to. France is a good place to add that stuff in. 

\- Of course Arthur would try to contact him in this period of time, too. Maybe an ignored phone call or 3? Several unanswered text messages.

Merlin looks down at the screen of his phone, heart missing a beat in his chest as he sees the name on the display. 

The text message is from Arthur, and it reads simply, _**please come home.**_

Merlin swallows down the sob that’s threatening to escape him and shoves his phone back into his pocket. He won’t answer, wouldn’t even know how if he wanted to. He’s never felt so lost and completely alone in his life.

[Maybe thinking back on a good time they had together. Birthday, holiday, just a regular Monday night and that’s what caused the 10 day in breakdown] He wishes he could have frozen time in that moment, tilted the hourglass of the universe and just stopped everything. Merlin could have been forever trapped in a time where Arthur was his and his alone, where just a glance from across a crowded room held so much weight, told them exactly how much they meant to each other.  
[Before going home, Merlin maybe draws a bit away from blaming himself/berating himself for the fails and starts putting the blame where it belongs, building up an exaggerated “hatred” for Arthur, just to protect himself]  
(make this more than a month. Maybe a month goes by and he still isn’t ready to go back and face the life that waits there for him: different and ruined and unfamiliar)

A month flies by and before Merlin knows it, he’s headed back home – well, to a new place that he’s only seen pictures of but Mordred has done a bang up job of finding for him while he’s been out of the country. His assistant and Morgana have set out his new flat with all his old belongings and a few things Merlin bought online or Morgana decided he needed (when he’d ever actually find time to study and learn how to operate the juicer she bought was beyond him, but she meant well so, what else could he do?)

Merlin tells no one the exact date of his arrival. It isn’t like he is hiding it from them, he just wants to be able to sink into this new life he’s found himself in on his own. Merlin wants to be able to wander around the new space that will be his and his alone, for now. Well, for a lot longer than now. He isn’t sure how you go about dating again when your heart and emotions have been completely shredded by your former lover, and it isn’t even something he cares to consider. Not when his heart is still so freshly broken, not when so much of him still belongs to Arthur.

 

If they ever do become whole again or just taped into a shape that is a shade of their former selves.

After taking a few minutes to sort through the keys that Mordred had sent to him the week before – how many did a bloody pokey bedsit need? – Merlin finally get’s the door open. It is with a loud yelp of surprise that he drops his luggage on the floor seconds after turning around to survey his new abode. Merlin stands there, one foot bent up on the other knee as he rubs at the spot where the one and only ancient hardcover of his Uncle Gaius’ he brought back had to bloody land. It’ll bruise for sure, and Merlin knows that it’s probably throbbing with pain but right now he can’t feel it. He can’t feel anything but the numbing shock from who’s in front of him, sat so nonchalantly on the horrid orange and tan striped armchair that Morgana had insisted he needed to “make the room.”

“Hi,” the man says, his fingers scrunching into the dark denim material that cover thighs that look a lot less toned than when Merlin had seen them last.

Merlin is gobsmacked. Can barely find the function to breathe let alone begin or add to conversation and manages to blink and lick his lips before uttering a witty, “Hello,” himself.

Arthur.

He looks. . . for want of a better word, like shit. There are dark circles that stain the skin under his eyes that look slightly bloodshot and the blue isn’t half as clear and bright as Merlin’s known them to be. He’s definitely lost weight – a lot by the look of how his t-shirt hangs from his upper body, one that Merlin has seen ride up over his waist and back in times past to reveal tanned, taut skin but now is limp and loose over his shoulders and arms. Arthur’s hands are rubbing at his thighs, a nervous tick that Merlin has had figured out since their first date where Arthur and his sweaty palms had given him away at just how worked up he’d been about going out with an “older man.”

There was two years eight months difference between them, and Arthur had rubbed it in that Merlin was a “cradle robber” from the get go.

Merlin almost smiles at the memory, then other things come barging in, shoving the good out of the way -- _lyingcheatingbastard._

Merlin straightens and finds his voice. But every question he starts leaves his mouth open only to close it again.

After a few more seconds that appear to last eons, Arthur answers for him. “I worked out where you were, well, convinced Mordred to tell me and Morgana let me in. She thought we should talk.”

Merlin bristles at the fact the people he’s yet again trusted have failed him. But in his heart he knows how hard it was for Morgana to choose between loyalty to a long time friend and to her brother. Then there’s Mordred and he always had a _thing_ for Arthur so he discounts it but knows for a fact the lad will be fired the moment he gets back into work. He needs people around him that he can trust right now. People who won’t lie and keep secrets behind his back. People who aren’t anything like Arthur.

More questions come to mind, each as important as the last but still Merlin can’t settle on one to ask. He glares each word at Arthur with his eyes who is staring at Merlin as if he can hear them by the subtle shift of muscle in Merlin’s face alone.

“Can,” he starts then stops, licking at lips that are chapped and dry to look at, as if he’s been doing that a lot lately, “Do you want to sit or,” Arthur stops again and blinks a half a dozen times before starting again, “Christ, you look – “

“What do you want?” Merlin finally puts thoughts into order as Arthur babbles in front of him. His body has turned cold, to ice and rock that can’t be chipped away by the sorry sight before him. He will not want to wrap that man in his arms and feel how _right_ it is to hold him again. He will not want to wipe at the few tears that are slowly trailing over gaunt cheeks roughened by a stubble that hasn’t seen a razor in days. He will not want to press his lips to each and every part of Arthur, the Arthur that he loved, that hurt him like nobody else ever could.

“I – I want to talk,” Arthur swallows and wipes at his face with one hand, “I – fuck Merlin I’ve missed you so much and I’m so, so sorry.” He rushes and physically breaks over the words, his shoulders falling forward as a sob shatters their silence.

“Sorry.” Merlin starts, letting the stale air settle around him – the scent of the cologne Arthur used to wear, the one Merlin bought a bottle of for himself when they first started dating because it was his Arthur - is there under the dust motes and swirls of salted tears and bitter emotions on his tongue.

“Sorry about what? That you basically broke into my home or bullied my friends into breaking their promises?” Merlin pauses, his voice soft and sure as each sentence is calculated, cool and completely belying the fact his heart is beating a tattoo into his ribs from how fast it’s thumping inside. “Or that you got caught out in the first place?”

Arthur blinks, swaying as if hit by what Merlin’s said. “All of it. All of it. But the last, the last most of all. Fuck, I was so stupid, so stupid, Merlin and I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.” His hand reaches out and Merlin shudders but fights the urge to step away from it. He will not be cowed by this man that shattered his insides so well – even a month away hasn’t set enough pieces right.

“You lied to me. You lied to me so many times that at the end I never knew the difference between what was real and what wasn’t. Were you really going out to watch the footy with the lads, or were you getting your cock sucked by someone else? Were you working late or getting laid? Were you in bed with me while your mind was holding someone else? Why did you even come home? Why are you _here_?”

“I’m sorry, I’m-“

Merlin is shaking as rage as Arthur’s continued apologies fall from his lips but it’s not enough. Merlin isn’t sure anything he said would be. “I’ve heard you. You’re sorry. Well I’m sorry too.” Arthur’s truly crying now and the effect of seeing his tears – it shouldn’t effect Merlin like it does. 

He can almost feel each remorseful suck in of breath so ragged matching the tremulous shudders that Merlin can feel in his hands. He doesn’t want to hesitate. He doesn’t want to give Arthur an in when he’s worked so hard at making him an _out._

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

Arthur nods and leans forward, catching his face within his own hands. Merlin leans back against the door and stares at the floor – all the fight slowly seeping from his body the longer Arthur is there and sounding somewhat in the realm of how Merlin had been when he’d finally broken ten days into his stay in France. Merlin sinks to the floor, his long legs stretched out in front of him as Arthur obviously fights to right himself and his breathing slows. Merlin picks at a stray thread on his soft woollen jumper that was a gift from Gaius’ “lady friend,” Alice. She makes the things herself and took pity on Merlin when they finally met, “your too thin and too sad. Definitely the royal blue.” and now he owns a dozen of the things in varying shades that also tend to match his mood.

Today it’s the periwinkle blue because he was happy to be coming home. The similarity of the material to Arthur’s eyes is just that. A similarity and nothing more.

Not that they match now. Red scatters itself amongst the white of Arthur's eyes, the blue hidden by fluttering dark lashes until they stop and stare at Merlin and then the fluttering begins once more. He’s waiting for Merlin. And Merlin is waiting for him.

“It never meant anything.”

Merlin closes his eyes and forces himself to _breathe._

He wanted to know, deep down in the pits of himself, Merlin wanted to know exactly what had gone down. At one stage, he wanted the finest details and now? Well now Merlin doesn’t want to care, doesn’t want to hear an excuse or anything else from Arthur at all.

Yet he craves it all the same.

“Tell me,” he coughs and swallows hard at the lump in his throat. Merlin lifts his eyes to see the openness in Arthurs and in seeing it finds his backbone. “It was Gwaine wasn’t it. At least I know he was part of it. If not the first time but one time, a few times.”

Arthur blinks and nods, shuddering in a breath. “Once. It was only once and it was before Lance and Gwen’s engagement party. I – I knew it was wrong and I’m-“

“If you say you’re sorry once more you can just leave because it’s not what I want to hear. You did this to us, you broke us, so just say what you have to say, alright?” Merlin’s hands aren’t shaking now, his anger at Arthur outweighing whatever nerves he had before.

“O-okay,” Arthur shifts on the chair, his hands rubbing over his knees as his eyes focus back down, somewhere on the floor. This suits Merlin just as much, it hits him someplace deep in his chest watching Arthur this upset, but knowing that he made himself like this, caused his own hurt by his own actions makes it a little easier to watch.

Merlin’s not a mean person, even with all that Arthur has done, he can’t change who he is at his core. Even if he does want to strike back at Arthur a little.

“Where,” Merlin finds himself saying without meaning too, his obvious need for details winning out over not wanting to know now and putting it behind him for now.

“At the gym. I could tell you a dozen different reasons why, and they’d all be excuses and you don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you for what I’ve done and I know that. I know.” Arthur's voice has dropped, the gravity of his statement needing only the strength of words used. “It wasn’t Gwaine either. I know you thought it was, but Gwaine _loves_ you, Merlin. He’d never. . . when he figured out what I’d done, he tried to get me to talk to you. He gave me a fucking black eye the day after you left when I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“Who was it then?” Merlin asks as he processes what Arthur is saying. “Gwaine was always flirting with you and we both know he tried to hook up with you that night we met. I saw the bruises on your hips, Arthur. They weren’t from my hands.”

“It doesn’t matter, it was once and it didn’t mean _anything_.”

Merlin glares at Arthur because he wants to know this man’s name, he needs to know who it was that Arthur went and fucked and fucked their relationship over for. “Who,”

Arthur stares up at him, “A no one. Just this trainer there who I worked out with when Gwaine couldn’t come. I don’t go there anymore. Haven’t since it happened. I couldn’t. The guilt has been eating away at me and I hated myself for it. Hate myself still.”

 

Good. Merlin thinks, and “Probably not as much as I hate you for what you did to us,” Merlin says. At Arthur’s pained cringe, Merlin almost regrets the cruelty of his words, but he doesn’t take them back. He wants to push for a name, a tangible fact that he can hurl abuse at but then again he doesn’t because he’s _over_ this. He needs to be over it and have Arthur gone because every moment that Arthur is here he feels the strings that have always been tied between them starting to knot once more.

And he can’t. He just can _not_ do this again.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t matter who it was or how hard you fucked them or if you sucked them off or let them kiss you raw because you thought about it and you let it sit between us festering until I had to go. You made me hate myself for hating you. You made me believe I wasn’t enough for you. That I wasn’t good enough. Do you know how fucked up that is?”

Arthur nods, “I knew you knew before you left and I just kept pushing you away thinking if I ignored it and you ignored it we could keep on but it was stupid. I was stupid. I hurt you and I took all that we had for granted for what? For something that meant nothing and made me lose you. You’re the most important person in my life and I gave you away for one stupid night.” He shakes his head and Merlin can’t stand that his fingertips itch to touch and make Arthur _right_. To sooth everything he can see Arthur is feeling – this especially difficult because Arthur has never been one to talk of his emotions and wear them out in the open – that was more Merlin of the two of them.

Merlin forces himself to stand, to put his hand on the door and open it. He takes a deep breath before straightening and facing Arthur. “I think you should leave.”

“But I haven’t explained. I want you to come home, Merlin. I want us to work this out. Can’t we-“

“No.”

Arthur blinks and stares at him, Merlin was never one to say no to Arthur. He went along with nearly all the plans that Arthur had because he liked being with him, no matter what. But not this time. Not now.

“Please Arthur. Just go.”

Arthur sits for a few seconds more that stretch until Merlin is almost fidgeting with a need to yell his anger at Arthur some more because he _needs_ him gone. He’s too close and Merlin hurts too much for the proximity. Then Arthur stands and slowly makes his way over, Merlin shifting backwards out of his way even though he doesn’t need to, but he just can’t be so near. He would melt into the wall to get away from Arthur’s presence if he could.

“So this is goodbye?” Arthur says, with one foot out the door.

“It has to be.”

[There has to be some sort of gut-wrenching description of the pain in Arthur’s eyes here. Goodbye is a pretty terrible thing, and he knows at this point that it’s his fault, that he’s completely fucked this up. We need to be able to feel a bit sorry for him rather than just feeling grr-face protective over Merlin.]

It’s a few minutes later, after he’s watched Arthur go and pressed the door closed when he hears the lift ding that Merlin slides down the door into a heap and doesn’t move for hours.

. . .

SORT OF PLOTLINE...  
merlin Dates Percival. percival is LOVELY and would BE a really good rebound for Merlin to see what relationships could be like if they weren’t all hidden by betrayal. but he can’t ever really get over Arthur -wasnt going to move in with Percy when he asked, never REALLY gave himself to Percy which was why percy left in the end.  
Its year and he still isn’t over Arthur  
Arthur waits  
And waits  
And waits  
And Percival gets jack of it and leaves  
And Arthur pops around and asks if they can watch red dwarf  
And tells merlin about his new job. How he’s taken back an interest in his life, trying to be a better man. Maybe therapy, learns to talk about how he feels instead of bottling it up. Instead of just through touch alone, finally gets that it's something merlin needs to hear not just feel.  
Last Line (because yeah, i do that.. always have the last line before i finish so i have something to work to)

It’s not a start, but it’s something.

***

**Excerpt from the Coping webpage:**  
_“...the first step in the restoration of marriage after an affair is to lay down the weapons. Each spouse must make a concerted effort to avoid anger, disrespect or demands at all costs. Every time they are together, they must do whatever it takes to make the relationship safe for each other.  
Once they can guarantee each other safety, by protecting each other from the things that threaten to break apart their love for one another, they are ready to learn to meet each other's emotional needs. But they will have to learn to negotiate all of these issues with a “policy of joint agreement” in mind. They must begin by guaranteeing each other that the cost of a great marriage will not require personal sacrifice. It will only require a willingness not to do anything that would hurt each other. They must understand that everything they will be doing in the future must take each other's feelings into account, and safety will be the guiding rule from now on.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that helped!


End file.
